


Five Things to Do in Isolation to Annoy the Doctor

by sariane



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: 5 Times, F/M, Gen, Humor, The Vault (Doctor Who), lockdown!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24141601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariane/pseuds/sariane
Summary: Missy keeps herself busy in the Vault.
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Missy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	Five Things to Do in Isolation to Annoy the Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! What am I doing, posting Doctor Who fanfiction again after nearly ten years? The first fic I ever published on fanfiction dot net – waaay back in 2006 – was Doctor Who, so this feels a lot like coming home. <3 
> 
> A note to future historians: This fic was written in April-May 2020 during the Covid-19 pandemic. While it shares thematic similarities (everyone I know is baking bread), it isn’t actually related to real world events. It is definitely not suitable to educate future generations on this period of world history. 
> 
> *  
>  **Warnings:**
> 
> \- Alcohol consumption + binge drinking  
> \- Sexual content: mention of masturbation  
> \- Accidental voyeurism/nudity: character walked in on while bathing

**1\. Bubble Baths**

Missy may not have very much in the Vault. Oh, she’s got books, a French fainting couch, and a piano. She has a kitchenette and a shower. But best of all is her bathtub.

It’s an early 20th century cast iron bathtub, complete with claw-foot embellishments and a stark white porcelain coating. It’s gigantic and luxurious, and when she fills it up she can slip in without her knees sticking out or her shoulders getting cold. It makes up for other things. (Like the lack of a microwave, laptop, avocados, and blowtorch that she’d been asking about.)

All things considered, the old claw-foot tub is _lovely_ for bathing, and it’s not like she has anything else to do.

Sadly, the Doctor had also turned down her request for a "bath bomb," refusing to believe that it was a perfectly innocent item. So, she makes do with liquid soap and runs the tap as hot as she can.

There aren't as many bubbles as all the movies the Doctor watches – her bits are _far_ from covered – but she's satisfied. She stretches out in the water and closes her eyes.

The doors to her Vault clang open suddenly. Missy opens her eyes to see Nardole blundering in, carrying a bag of groceries. He stops in his tracks and drops the bag. Missy rolls her eyes.

“Please, tell me this isn’t the first time you’ve seen a woman naked,” she drawls.

Nardole turns on his heel. The doors slam shut behind him.

It takes approximately two minutes – by which time even more of her bubbles have popped, and Missy realizes this bath hasn’t been relaxing _at all_ – before the Doctor shows his face. Nardole, of course, is not with him.

“ _He’s_ the one who barged in without knocking,” Missy says immediately. “And it’s not my fault you didn’t give me a proper shower curtain.”

“You have a bathroom, Missy,” the Doctor says, crossing his arms. Missy realizes, to her chagrin, that he’s looking directly at her face without _any_ effort to keep his eyes there.

Missy rests a leg on the side of the tub, trying to look luxurious and... voluptuous. “The tub doesn’t fit in there,” she says.

“You could have asked me to make the room bigger,” the Doctor says.

“I could have,” Missy says, “but then I wouldn’t have the honor of asking you to join me, would I?”

The Doctor frowns, looking at the bathtub and shaking his head.

“What, get all… wet and soapy? For what? There’s no room,” he says, looking her in the eye. _Again._

Missy huffs and sits up with a splash. Bubbles fly, but the Doctor doesn’t seem very concerned.

“Please stop harassing Nardole,” the Doctor says. “I’ll give you a bigger bathroom. I’ll give you – I don’t know, a jacuzzi. Just _please_ stop running around naked. It offends him. It’s a cultural thing.” He shrugs, as though it’s all beyond him.

“Tell him to knock,” Missy snaps. She’s realized that the Doctor is very much not going to take the chance to oogle her. Maybe he’s too cross. She softens her voice, a little. “Or give him my apologies, I suppose. I thought it was _you_ at the door.”

She bats her eyelashes a few times, waiting for the penny to drop and the Doctor to realize what he has in front of him.

“Yeah, well, I’ll make sure to knock in the future, so you have time to cover up,” the Doctor says. He grabs a towel from where she’d left it on a chair and passes it to her before he leaves.

_Goddamn it._

***

**2\. Learn a New Instrument**

The Doctor is awoken from his nap by a great unholy shrieking – something between the Great Hornox of Bestros giving birth and a primary school at recess.

He jolts out of his armchair. The noise echoes around the concrete walls of the University basement. His fingers are too slow and fumbling as he tries to get the Vault locks open.

“What the hell is that noise?” Nardole asks, walking in from the adjacent room. He’s wearing his horrible orange dressing gown. “Oh. Doctor. What are you doing down here?”

“Fell asleep reading,” the Doctor says quickly. If he sometimes likes to sit outside the Vault and think, that’s no business of Nardole’s.

The noise shows no sign of stopping by the time the Doctor gets the Vault doors open. If anything, it’s gotten _louder_.

The Doctor bursts through the doors to find Missy perched on top of her piano again. Playing the bagpipes.

The Doctor freezes in his tracks. Nardole walks in past him, a sour expression on his face. The noise coming from Missy’s bagpipes doesn’t even _vaguely_ resemble music.

“What are you doing, playing that at this hour?” the Doctor asks her loudly “You’ll wake up the whole campus!”

Missy lowers the bagpipes and smiles sweetly. He hates when she does that.

“You told me I had to find a hobby,” she says, still smiling with an infuriatingly innocent air. “Learn a new skill,” she says, in a stuffy imitation of him. “Discover something _new_ about yourself, Missy. Something non-violent, preferably.”

“What you’re doing to my _ears_ is violence,” the Doctor says.

Missy fiddles with a drone, one of the long wooden pipes sticking out of the bag. She sighs. “I’ve got the accent, why shouldn’t I learn about the culture?”

“I think that’s cultural appropriation,” the Doctor says.

Nardole snorts, “So is your accent.” The Doctor throws a dirty look at him.

Missy takes this as an opportunity to begin playing the bagpipes again, blissfully swaying in time (not that she’s playing in it).

“Where did she even _get_ bagpipes?” the Doctor asks Nardole loudly, over the noise. Nardole shrugs, looking guilty. The bagpipes squeak and shriek as she tortures them.

The Doctor finally gives up and approaches Missy, fingers stuck in his ears. Her legs dangle from the piano, and she aims a kick at him as he passes her.

_How To Play The Bagpipes, For Beginners_ lays on top of the piano next to Missy, completely ignored. As the Doctor picks it up, Missy’s bagpipes emit the loudest, most horrible note yet. The Doctor pulls out his sonic and points it at the instrument threateningly.

“Don’t you dare!” Missy shouts, cradling her bagpipes like a very gassy baby. They let out a little squeak.

“At least let me tune them!” he says. “Or check that you’ve not stuck a cat inside.”

“Not with that bloody electric toothbrush of yours,” Missy spits. She caresses her bagpipes possessively. “Don’t worry, Jamie, I won’t let the Doctor hurt you.”

“ _You named it Jamie?!_ ” the Doctor shouts, livid.

“Yes, after the hunk from _Outlander_ ,” Missy smiles dreamily. She strokes one of the long drones suggestively.

“Oh, dear,” Nardole says.

*

Fifteen minutes later, the Doctor has the bagpipes in his lap, holding a drone in one hand and his sonic screwdriver in the other. Missy sits next to him on the piano stool, looking at the practice chanter in her hand with disappointment.

“You’ll never improve if you don’t practice,” the Doctor says. Missy glares daggers at him.

“It’s no _fun_ without the big pipes,” she complains.

“It’s quieter.”

“ _Exactly_.”

The Doctor sets the bagpipes aside for a moment and takes the practice chanter from Missy. It’s long and thin, made out of dark wood, with a mouthpiece to blow into and holes carved into it.

“It’s just like a recorder,” he grins, and Missy groans. The Doctor puts the mouthpiece to his lips and blows out a horribly off-key note. “Hmm,” he says, reaching for his sonic screwdriver. Missy grabs the chanter away from him.

“ _You’_ _ve_ got that bloody guitar,” Missy says, “but I’m bored. Let me have some fun!”

“This isn’t fun, this is sadism,” the Doctor replies.

Missy responds by starting to run through the scales on her chanter. Her cheeks puff out as she blows too hard. The Doctor claps his hands over his ears again. It isn’t half as loud as the bagpipes, but it’s still pitchy.

“Can’t you just play the piano?” he says. “You’re good at that.”

Missy plays a few off-key notes in response.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Doctor replies. “I’ve got some spoons lying around, if you want me to teach you how to play those.”

At that, Missy begins to play a rousing rendition of ‘Hot Cross Buns,’ and the Doctor gets back to work sonic-ing the bagpipes into tune.

If they cease to work after he’s done with them, well, his sonic just isn’t _made_ for tuning instruments.

***

**3\. Baking**

“Can you move your book off my counter? You’re in my way,” Missy says. Bill looks up from her Stats book and frowns.

“Look, I said I’d help you cook if you helped me with my maths homework. Books are kind of part of the deal,” Bill says. Missy rolls her eyes.

“As if I need your _help_ ,” Missy replies.

“Okay, if you want to be exact, the Doctor said you needed my _supervision_ ,” Bill says coolly. Missy purses her lips. “Or I can leave...with your oven privileges.”

Missy raises her hands in surrender.

“Oh no, fine, fine, fine. I can help you. One plus one equals two, and so on, and so forth.”

Bill watches as Missy busies herself gathering ingredients. The Vault’s kitchen isn’t large or fancy, and doesn’t have many of the staples of a kitchen, such as a microwave, or gas burners. Or knives.

Missy has chosen to wear a frilly white apron over her usual purple dress. Looking at her makes Bill feel a little sick. What kind of aesthetic is ‘evil Mary Poppins,’ anyways?

“Could you explain how to solve this equation?” Bill asks, pointing to something in her book. “I’ve tried it three times, but I keep getting different answers.”

“Hmm,” Missy says. She hardly glances at it. “The answer is pie.”

“Pi?” Bill asks, furrowing her eyebrows. “This problem has nothing to do with circles.”

“Yes, pie,” Missy says. “Or bread. Haven’t decided yet.”

Bill sets her pencil down. Her frown deepens.

“I’m being serious,” she says. “I know this is all kids’ stuff to you, but I’m not a Time Lord. A couple of months ago, I wasn’t even a student here. It’s been years since I did my A-levels. I don’t remember this stuff.”

“Have you tried asking the Doctor?” Missy says, scrunching up her nose like she smells something bad. “He’s the professor, after all.”

“Yeah. He said _you_ were always better at maths,” Bill says. This doesn’t seem to improve Missy’s mood at all. She doesn’t respond to Bill, choosing to ignore her as she measures out warm water into a pitcher. Bill watches her pour the water into a bowl, and then add sugar and yeast.

“Look, you and the Doctor were friends in school, yeah? Didn’t you ever help him with _his_ maths homework?” Bill asks, although she immediately regrets saying it.

“Did _he_ tell you that?” Missy asks. She stares at the mixture in her bowl, impatiently tapping a whisk in her hand. “He didn’t need help, he was just trying to get into my pants.”

“Ew. Okay,” Bill says. “I didn’t need to know that.”

Missy measures some flour, salt, and more sugar into a bowl.

“That’s a good idea, actually,” Missy says dismissively. “Why don’t you find some handsome young lad in your class and ask him for help, instead?” When she’s finished with the bag of flour, Missy plops it down next to Bill’s textbook. A cloud of flour explodes in the air, settling over Bill’s homework.

Bill coughs pointedly, waving the flour away. “Half the guys in my classes already think they know everything. I don’t need to encourage them.”

“And yet you _still_ look impressed when the Doctor talks about aliens and time travel,” Missy points out. “ _Tsk tsk_.”

Missy’s yeast concoction begins to bubble slightly. She mixes in some oil, and then starts to whisk in the flour a little at a time.

“You do know I’m gay, right?” Bill says slowly.

“Good for you,” Missy says in a bored voice.

Bill pauses. “Do you even know what ‘gay’ means?” she asks.

“Oh, _please_ ,” Missy laughs. “I practically _invented_ the leather scene back in the 70’s. Can you pass me the flour?”

Bill tries not to gape. She passes Missy the flour.

“Uh, wasn’t leather the 80’s, though?” she asks skeptically.

“Can’t remember,” Missy shrugs as she spreads a light coating of flour on the counter-top. “I spent a lot of time in London. I had a marvelous beard. I miss it, sometimes. I don’t think I’d look very good with one in _this_ body.”

“So you were a man, then? The Doctor told me about the regeneration thing.” Bill hesitates, leaning in like the Doctor might be listening. “Has _he_ ever been a woman?” she asks.

Missy rolls her eyes. "Have you ever heard of the Bechdel Test?" she asks, apropos of nothing. She pours her dough out onto the counter and begins to knead it.

"No... Do I _want_ to ask?"

"It's a litmus test for the representation of women in media," Missy says. "A, the movie has two women; B, who speak to each other," she stops and waggles her eyebrows at Bill, "C, about something _other than a man_."

"You could teach a women's studies course," Bill says, unimpressed.

"I do have a life outside the Doctor, dearie," Missy insists.

“Well, I don’t,” Bill sighs. “I can’t even go on a date, or find some new housemates without aliens popping up.”

“I can sympathize, actually,” Missy says. “Every time I try to take over a planet, he keeps popping up and stops me. Even when he isn’t invited. It’s very rude.” She continues kneading, working the dough as though she’s wringing someone’s neck.

“Yeah, I don’t think our situations are that similar, actually,” Bill points out, a little standoffish.

Missy sighs. “If you aren’t even going to make an _effort_ to talk about anything other than the Doctor, I’m going to be forced to help you with your homework instead.”

“Good,” Bill says brightly. “ _Was_ he ever a woman, then? You never answered me.”

“Maybe,” Missy says elusively. “Now, are you done asking stupid questions?” She throws a little more flour onto the counter and flips the dough over.

“No, I think I’ve still got some maths questions left,” Bill says sarcastically.

“God help me,” Missy sighs. She looks down at her dough, as though she’s considering something. “Alright, turn your book around so I can see the damn thing.”

*

The smoke alarm wakes Bill. She sits up, startled to find the pages of her textbook sticking to her cheek.

“Oh my god,” she says, looking around her and realizing she’s still in the Vault. On the other end of the little kitchen, Missy stands under the smoke alarm and is desperately fanning the smoke away from it with a magazine.

Bill looks around frantically. There’s nothing in sight that’s actually _on fire_. But there’s a horrible burnt smell coming from the oven. Her stomach twists in dread when the Doctor runs in.

“Bill!” he shouts, approaching her with a wild look in his eye. He sets a hand on her shoulder. “Bill? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Bill says, still blinking away sleep. “I dunno what happened. I, uh, think I fell asleep?”

The Doctor frowns at her. She hates that frown. Thankfully, he turns to frown at Missy instead. They lock eyes.

“Oven privileges...” the Doctor starts.

“Oh, shush, please,” Missy says. “I’m just trying to get the hang of baking, you know.” She stands in front of the oven protectively. Bill has a bad feeling about this.

The Doctor steps closer. “Open it up, Missy,” the Doctor says, as though he’s speaking to a child.

“It was just a little –”

“Missy.”

“Oh, fine,” Missy says, opening the oven door. Bill coughs as a new wave of horrible burnt air wafts towards her.

“You created a time disruption field?” the Doctor asks, leaning down to look into the oven. He glances back at Bill, who just shrugs. She wonders how long she was asleep.

“I was trying to make it _rise_ faster,” Missy grumbles.

“What?”

“The _bread_ ,” Missy says. “It takes two hours to rise, and then you’re supposed to just punch it down, put it in a pan, and wait for it to rise _again_! It’s barbaric.”

The Doctor sighs, looking at the bread. To Bill’s surprise, it looks like it had molded over and sprouted some kind of advanced fungus before being burnt in the oven.

“I don’t know how people have the patience to bake bread,” Missy sighs, examining her fingernails moodily.

“Did you at least help Bill revise for her maths class?” the Doctor asks, resigned.

“Kind of?” Bill says, a question in the air. “But she also gave me a lecture in Gender Studies.”

“Oh. Good,” the Doctor nods. “That sounds helpful.”

“Except I’m not taking Gender Studies,” Bill points out.

The Doctor frowns at Missy again. Before Bill and the Doctor leave, he points his sonic at Missy’s time oven. It sparks a few times before powering down, leaving Missy with her sad, burnt bread fungus.

***

**4\. Jerk Off**

The Doctor plops a pile of books onto Missy’s desk, scattering the pages of the romance novel Missy had been writing. She looks up from her typewriter and scowls at him.

“The books you asked for,” he says. “You’re welcome. Nardole wanted to censor _Fifty Shades._ But I know you’ve already read it, considering the time you left it in my lab for Jo to find.” The Doctor sets a plastic bag on top of the pile of new bodice rippers.

“Is this everything I requested?” Missy asks. She rolls her chair forwards and takes the bag, rifling through deodorant, stockings, a toothbrush, and a packet of jelly babies that she certainly did _not_ ask for. The Doctor reaches over her shoulder and plucks out the bag of jelly babies.

“What about the batteries I asked for?” Missy says.

“Lithium batteries? Best not. What do you even need them for?” the Doctor asks through a mouthful of sweets.

“Television remote,” Missy says quickly.

“There’s no way they’ve gone bad so quickly,” the Doctor says. “What are you up to?”

“I need them for important things, Doctor,” Missy says brusquely. “Super secret lady things, you know. That time of the month.”

The Doctor narrows his eyes. He stops with a jelly baby held halfway to his mouth. “You’re a Time Lord, you don’t get a period.”

“I’m half-human, on my mother’s side,” Missy says conspiratorially.

“Periods don’t require batteries,” the Doctor points out. He taps his chin, thinking. “Periods come with chocolate, and crisps, and those napkin things. What do you want with batteries, Missy?”

“Oh, _fine_!” Missy says, throwing her hands up in frustration. “They’re for my vibrator, you complete numpty!”

“Your what?” the Doctor asks, confused.

“Oh my god,” Missy says. “Don’t tell me, in two thousand years you’ve never come across one? Pardon the pun.”

“Maybe. Dunno. I have a lot of things stored in this head,” he says, tapping his temple, “sometimes I throw out the irrelevant stuff.”

Missy makes a disgusted noise. “I thought that was half the reason you carry that foolish screwdriver with you. It _is_ sonic, after all.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and adds, “Is it time for a little sex education, perhaps?”

“Oh,” the Doctor says, sounding a little disappointed. “It’s a sex thing, then? But you’re all alone in here! What does it do?”

“Good lord,” Missy shake her head. “It does what it says on the tin, Doctor. And, you know,” she leans back in her chair, propping her feet up on the desk, “I do have rather a lot of alone time.”

The Doctor stares at her stockinged ankles for a long moment. His eyes widen comically.

“Oh!” he exclaims, stammering. “So you – ah. Okay. Yeah.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Missy repeats slowly. “So. In light of this humiliating conversation, can I have my batteries? Maybe I can give you a demonstration sometime, if you’re still confused,” she says innocently.

The Doctor backs away, hands held out in surrender. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says. He very quickly ducks out of the Vault, blushing.

Missy glares at his backside.

***

**5\. Get Drunk**

There are some days where Missy really misses a tumbler of whiskey, a cigar, and a comfortable leather armchair. And there are some days where she misses getting extremely plastered.

It just so _happens_ to be one of those days when Nardole pops his (possibly still organic;, definitely still squash-able) head into the Vault, carrying a few grocery bags.

“These are for you,” he says, setting them down and quickly turning on his heel. He still acts like a little mouse around her, at least when the Doctor isn’t there to protect him. It’s pathetic.

“Wow, thanks,” Missy says sarcastically, looking up from where she’s splayed across the fainting couch. “You could say hi, you know. I’m not going to bite – you don’t look like you taste very good.”

“Actually, I have plans tonight,” Nardole says, spinning around with a little skip in his step. “It’s my birthday! I’m having a little party.”

“Oh. And I’m not invited?” Missy pouts. God, she _must_ be desperate if she wants to go to _Nardole’s birthday party_.

“Sadly, no. But if I ever decide I want my limbs detached, I will of course, call you,” Nardole says, pushing his glasses up his nose. He leaves the Vault, the doors closing with a soft echoing _boom._

“Where _does_ he find these people?” Missy says to herself. She shakes her head and gets up to check what the Doctor and Nardole have brought her this time.

She picks up one of the grocery bags. Instead of the usual toiletries, she pulls out a bag of crisps and a horrible tinsel crown that says ‘It’s My Birthday’ in large letters.

“Oi, Birthday Boy!” Missy yells towards the doors, “You gave me the wrong bag!” She drops the bag of party decorations on the floor. It turns onto its side, spilling out printed napkins and little cocktail umbrellas. _Hmm._ Missy pauses for a moment.

Missy reaches into the other bag and pulls out a bottle of tequila.

“Now _that’s_ more like it,” she says with a grin, and goes off to find some salt.

It turns out that there are also limes in the bag, and she’s got a whiskey glass and a good book. Missy settles back on her comfiest purple couch, hoping it’ll take Nardole at least an hour to realize why he has soap and tissues instead of his party supplies.

Missy takes a sip of the tequila and blinks a few times in surprise. She looks at the bottle again. It’s a shame they were planning on using it as a mixer, honestly… She takes another sip, and finishes the small bit she’d poured herself.

“They don’t deserve you, dearie,” she says to the bottle as she pours herself a little more.

*

Missy is probably mostly done with the bottle when she looks up and sees the Doctor has joined her.

“Oh, hello, love, nice of you to drop in on my little party,” she giggles.

“I can see you’ve had quite the time of it,” the Doctor says, standing over her. He’s very tall and imposing, and tall and dark and handsome, and tall, like this. “Thank you,” he says.

“What?” Missy says. She leans back on the couch.

“You’re very drunk,” the Doctor says.

Missy feels something tugging at her hands, and looks down to see the bottle of tequila clutched in them. He’s trying to take it from her, very gently.

“You don’t deserve this tequila,” she says, “it’s far too good for you.”

“I think you’ve taken care of most of the bottle for me anyways,” the Doctor says. He sighs. “What else was in the bag?”

“What? Oh, the limes. They were lovely. I did shots!” Missy smiles, pointing at the remnants of a few limes. She’d had to peel them, since she wasn’t allowed any knives in the Vault. It got rather messy – she still has lime on her fingers.

Missy sticks a few fingers into her mouth and sucks the salty lime taste off them. The Doctor’s eyes are big and round in his face.

“Shots aren’t any fun alone,” she says, “neither are limes. I think there’s one lying over there that I didn’t – yeah, that’s the one.”

The Doctor begins to peel the lime, just like an orange, leaving Missy in stitches again. She covers her mouth with her hand, trying not to cackle like an idiot.

“You look silly, peeling a _lime_ ,” she says. “Are you going to take a bite? Is _that_ what vegetarians eat? Limes?”

“Oh, yeah,” the Doctor says, holding the lime up to his mouth. “Helps with the scurvy.”

Missy is left shaking with laughter again. When she finally calms herself down, she realizes the Doctor is sitting down next to her on the couch, with the bottle. He pours himself a shot and looks around for the salt.

“Ohh, wait, I’ve got it,” Missy says, pulling the salt shaker out of her pocket. The Doctor raises an eyebrow.

She salts her own wrist, since the rest of her hand is a mite sticky, and holds it out. Both eyebrows disappear into the Doctor’s hair.

“Goodbye, eyebrows,” Missy says sadly. Sometimes she thinks she actually likes them. They have…. _Personality_.

The Doctor snorts. He licks the salt off her wrist, takes the shot, and bites the unpeeled lime slice.

“Ugh,” he says a moment later, pulling a face. “Why do people like that?”

“I heard it’s better if you do body shots,” Missy replies conspiratorially, leaning towards the Doctor. He doesn’t lean away.

“We don’t have nearly enough alcohol for that to happen,” the Doctor grimaces.

“You’re right, there’s hardly any left. It is a shame,” Missy says. She rests her head on his shoulder. “Did you go to Nardole’s party?”

“Nardole is having a party?” the Doctor asks. She turns her head, trying to watch his eyebrows again, but she isn’t at the right angle. She ends up staring at his chin.

“It’s his birthday,” Missy says. “He’s very old, and very cross! I’m tired of him, Doctor. Can we get a new one?”

“A new what?”

“A new pet.” She sniffs and throws an arm around the Doctor. She’s trying very hard to cuddle him, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed yet.

“Nardole is not a pet,” the Doctor says.

“That’s not a _no_ ,” Missy hums happily. It hangs there in the air as they sit together on the couch, Missy half draped over the Doctor, head resting halfway between his shoulder and his chest. She can hear his hearts beating.

“You were always a terrible lightweight,” the Doctor sighs, “I suppose I had this coming.”

“Excuse me!” Missy protests in a squawk. She slaps his chest lightly. “That was _you,_ you complete liar. I can’t believe this! This is slander.”

“I think you have to _have_ a reputation in order for me to slander it, Missy,” the Doctor points out.

“I do!” she says. “I’m known for being very evil, and very smart. Throughout the galaxy. Universe. Dimension.”

“Only one dimension?”

“Well,” Missy thinks for a moment, “I suppose my alternate selves are famous in their own respective dimensions. You know, ruling empires and conquering planets, kicking babies and skinning peasants. In the _EastEnders_ Universe, I’m haunting Albert Square.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” the Doctor says.

“Oh,” Missy mutters, “it is. That’s why I’m so exhausted all the time,” she says, and promptly falls asleep.

The Doctor doesn’t leave her water, or medication, or those clever little hangover-cure tablets they invent in the 22nd century. But she does wake up the next morning, in her own bed, with her shoes off, so that’s something.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Sending my love to everyone reading this. <3
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://sarriane.tumblr.com) for my slow spiral back into Doctor/Master fandom.


End file.
